Landon in The Literary Gazette 1825/Canova
Literary Gazette, 24th December, 1825, Page 828
NO. I.—ANECDOTE OF CANOVA.
There is his bust—a noble morning brow,
Clear, open, beautiful, with the thick hair
Hung in dark masses. Look upon it now
In the full daylight;—seems it not to wear
All of least earthly Heaven may well allow
Our mortal state of humbleness to share?
Earth's tenderness is on the lip, but heaven
Has it's own lightning to the forehead given.
He was young Beauty's sculptor—one who caught
The breathing essence of her loveliness,
Giving a visible form to each sweet thought
That dwelt within his bosom's last recess.
Oh, Love! how much by thee is Genius taught!
How after-life will bear thy first impress!
’Tis so in common hearts; but more thy dye
Lasts stamped by Mind unto eternity.
Love taught Canova beauty; 'twas one morn,
Stooped o'er his chisel, while his eye grew dim,
Gazing on shapes that made him feel forlorn
And lonely, that such had no part in him:
There Ariadne, from a silver horn,
Poured purple sparkles o'er the goblet's brim;
And like a form embodied on the air,
Flung back the radiant Venus her bright hair.
He starts! a low soft sigh stole on his ear;
He turned to whence its living music came,
And saw her by the open casement near,
So that the fresh air fanned the crimson flame
That fed upon her cheek—a single tear
Lay like a gem upon it—sudden shame
Made the young artist farther shrink away,
As dazzled by a sudden burst of day.
It was a face, with nothing but the blush
To mark it from the sculptured features round:
As perfect in its beauty; but the flush
Of earthly warmth and earthly feeling crowned
The master-piece of nature;—that rich gush
Was from the heart, which thus a language found,
The eloquence of truth and silence ever:—
Words, sighs, and smiles deceive, but blushes never.
Yet grief would till the eye that watched that face:
The blue mine of the forehead, showed its wealth
Of azure veins too clearly, and the trace
Of early hidden grief was there:—by stealth
The tears stole from their starry dwelling-place;
The cheek was morning's colour, not its health.
And yet there was a beautiful repose,
Like the last softened shade of sorrow's close.
Upon her arm, as dreamingly she leant,
While the clear sky was mirror'd in her eyes,
Her spirit mingling with its element,
Flinging off all the baser of life's ties;
Bound but by those whose earthliness is blent
With finer essence, gentle sympathies,
And pure affections;—all that makes the earth
Recall the Eden of its early birth.
Canova gazed on her, as tho’ he caught
New being from her look; as, till that hour,
Life had been like a dream, a hope, a thought,
Of which till then he never knew the power;
A new sense of existence to him brought
The sudden opening of a summer flower;
He gazed till rose the maiden to depart—
She pass'd, but left her image on his heart.
This roused him from his trance, but roused to feel
Another soul within him; a dim sense
Of happiness, like perfume o'er him steal:
They closed the gallery, and he wandered thence
As if he had some treasure to conceal,
(Young Love thy dreams are thy best recompense!)
And left the city, hastily, to share
His new-born pleasure with the sun and air.
He paused within a little nook, which seemed
Made for a lover's passionate idlesse;
And flung, at full length, on the turf, he dreamed
His earliest dream of woman's loveliness;
He had no hopes, no aims—his thoughts but gleamed
Like stars, which have no end in the excess
Of light they pour on the night element,—
As their own beauty made their own content.
Oh! passion's after day is little worth
The first delicious breaking of its morn;
Too like a falling orb, which, heaven sent-forth,
Touching our earth, is of its glory shorn;
Brightness and pleasure wait upon its birth;
But, afterwards, come sorrow, shame, and scorn.
Love, that redeem'st our base mortality,
What has the serpent's soil to do with thee?
’Twas a voluptuous hour; bird-like the breeze
Had folded up his scented wings, to sleep
'Mid the rich blossoms of the orange-trees;—
Bowed down the rose, as too oppress'd to keep
The treasure of her sweetness from the bees;
One moment more the odorous dew must weep,
So heavy was the air with its delight;
Like the last languid kiss of love's good night.
For days the lady came, and watched the face
Of the Madonna, as her soul were there;
Beside the casement, as if that charmed place,
Filled with the gifts of mind, and open air
Had influence on her soul, and touched its prayer
With something of their own unearthly grace.
They spoke not; 'twas enough for him to know
That Beauty's breathing likeness was below.
One day she came not; it was all in vain
That the young sculptor would have fix'd his thought
On the fair brow he traced—still like a chain
His anxiousuess prest round,—be fruitless sought
To still the sudden throbbing of each vein,
When the least sound upon his ear was brought:
This feverish restlessness, it is love's first
Of miseries, would to heaven it were its worst!
His heart was heavy—as an omen; all
His hopes seemed dead, restless he wandered long—
At last he paused by the cathedral wall
Whence came the burial anthem's mournful song:
He entered, and he saw the funeral pall;
His heart foreboded, how could it be wrong?
He raised the shroud—he knew that she was there;
And thence he turned away in black despair.
And still, in all the works of later years,
Is traced the influence of that early flame;
Sorrow and love might have passed with their tears,
But they had hallowed his heart, and Fame
But followed in their footsteps.
Iole.